The pigeon would never know
Our neighbour to the left is six-foot-seven with interchangeable attachments for his right arm stump. He has three teeth, a false eye made entirely out of dried fruit and he sweats oil. His name is Jerry and we get on with him famously. We often lend him our wardrobe and he reciprocates by grazing on our lawn.

Our other neighbour, however, is quite odd. She moved in around eight months ago. It was just after Christmas and I was feeling rather down as I tend to do once the festive season is coming to a close. Following the doctor's advice my partner had been tucked up in bed since Boxing Day, suffering from a severe bout of Henry's Chin. She had been sucking her ankles for three days straight so I had resorted to sleeping on the couch with only a small loaf for comfort.

One night, when the snow had just about cleared, I was awoken from my downstairs slumber by a spasmodic tap at the window. I peered through the darkness at the mantlepiece as a thin shaft of cold blue light illuminated the face of our carriage clock: 4.05am. Who on earth would be tapping at our living room window at such an hour? A mischievous youth? Some creature of the night?

With only a pair of pale blue cotton briefs to preserve my modesty, I made my way creakily toward the window. I parted the curtains a fraction and peeped out. There, in the centre of the crisp, frosted lawn stood a slender woman of around thirty-five with close-cropped blond hair and clothed only in a white thong and bra. Despite her slim frame her breasts were full and healthy like a pair of dead labrador puppies in miniature silk hammocks. Her expression was blank, though she had tears in her eyes that could have been caused by the bitter cold, or maybe by a deep sorrow within her heart. Her lips already appeared blue. I could not leave this thing of beauty standing there in the dark.

Despite my wood, I departed from the warmth of the house and onto the lawn. The frosted blades of grass crunched delicately beneath my bare feet as a subtle, chill breeze kissed and licked at my nipples, and they responded by reaching outward from my chest like hungry anemones grasping for plankton in the ocean of the morning air. I approached the frozen lawnvixen. The cold caused me to gasp and my thick, warm breath shrouded her breasts, forming fragile crystals of ice upon her soft, moist skin. I quietly asked her why she was standing on my lawn at 4.05am on such a cold winter's morning. She gently took my hand and led me into the house next door. I asked her what was wrong and she pointed silently at the stairs just within the doorway. Her face was numb from the cold so I struck it a mighty blow with my right elbow. "Speak, o frozen harpy of the night!" I bellowed. "Divulge unto me thy reasons for moonlit winter frolicks!" She stared blankly, her only movement a vain effort to try and lick her own eyebrow. It was clear she would not speak so I thought it best to look at the stairs and try to identify the problem.

It was then that the noise began. It was the most guttural, primeval grunt, and though it emanated from the woman's wide-open mouth, her head tossed back as though catching falling ham, its origins were far deeper. I could only describe the sound as that of a gravel pancreas mounted by a bald, rectal fox with Steve Penk's disgustingly misguided sense of self-importance, and it made me sick. I distracted the groaning wretch for a second or two with a tasteless Rod Hull impersonation and fled from the house and back next door to the warmth of my couch.

I have not seen our neighbour since that morning, but every time I walk past her house I can hear that same bowel-raping, churning sound from behind the door.

My partner recovered quickly from her illness, although her chin is still somewhat gluey.
(stusut79, Thu 25 Aug 2005, 17:12, Reply)